Return
by funyun
Summary: We all knew it was going to happen, but how did it happen when it did?
1. Resurrected

My second story, woohoo! Milestone! This is meant to be a one shot, but it didn't turn out that way. It'll probably only be two or three chapters at most, or until I find a good stopping point. I of course am committing a writing sin. I'm not exactly disguising my voice with Quatermain's voice, just voicing my own opinions.

Return

…Where in God's name am I? _Who _in God's name am I?

            Those were my first coherent thoughts upon my return to the land of the living. My name is Allan Quatermain, although I did not know it at that time.

            Imagine my situation: I have no idea who I am or where I am. It's dark and cramped, not to mention I'm dressed in my best suit. Not the best conditions for acting very intelligent.

            I don't remember much from just then; only impressions. All there was was the knowledge that if I didn't dig myself out of my own grave it would soon be again serving it intended purpose.

            I had a splitting headache—being resurrected does that to you—and some idiot up above me was yelling nonsense. Looking back, the reason for my headache was also the reason I was able to HAVE a headache at all.

            Finally, I reached the surface. I grabbed onto the nearest solid thing around. It felt familiar—smooth and cool, I knew its contours. It was a Winchester—"modified, American style."

            I remembered Tom Sawyer then, and everything came back in a rush. Brains aren't meant to take this kind of abuse all at once. I almost lost my grip on the rifle. My head was about to split, but I hung onto that thought. After a while, though, it scared me. Tom would never, EVER, if his life depended on it let his guns out of his sight. Had something happened to him after I…died?

            I couldn't worry about that at the moment. I would get myself out first. Everything else had to be second priority. I pulled my other arm up out of the small hole I had already opened, and this time my hand was grabbed by another. The man—who happened to have very sweaty palms—pulled me up and out of my grave. I opened my eyes, letting them adjust to the bright sunlight. From my surroundings, I now understood why the man's hand was sweaty. We were in Kenya. I took a great whiff of the familiar and comforting air.

            I remembered my manners and turned to my rescuer, saying, "Thank you." It seemed rather anticlimactic, but it didn't matter anyway. The man smiled and pointed a withered finger at his own lips and shook his head. I switched into the native tongue and repeated my sentiments of gratitude.

            He smiled wider this time. "Africa has been in debt to Allan Quatermain for so long. Now her debt is paid." The man looked old enough to have been the one to originally bless me.

            I stood up and more fully took in my surroundings. I was annoyed because the undertaker had spelled my last name wrong, again. It wasn't important, though. I apparently wouldn't have to worry about that for some time now, it seemed. Oh well. The undertaker was a white man from England, like me, and took no stock in the African's magic, but was deeply superstitious. I could go haunt him before I sought out the League. Strange how I knew that whatever I did, I was going to follow my newfound companions. Sure, I had been on other exploits and made friends, and some were still alive, but with the League I had found something I had been willing to die for. I suppose that counted for something.

            The Britannia Club hadn't been rebuilt yet—for good reason, too. Our mission with the League had only lasted for a few days, and my burial and subsequent resurrection couldn't have happened too long after that.

            My rescuer had run off, surprisingly fast for his advanced age. But then, some would say the same about me. He ran from hut to hut, spreading the news that bloody Allan Quatermain had been resurrected. The village was getting excited, almost as much as when a particularly juicy piece of gossip was making the rounds.

            The last thing I noticed was the sky. Usually, it was lonely, without a single cloud. Now all you could see of the sun was a few glimpses between clouds. A moment of anticipation, and then for the first time in years in this part of Kenya, it rained.


	2. ReIntroductions

I couldn't stop this loverly fic before I rejoined our Mr. Q with the League, so the story got up on its hind legs, grabbed a pen and wrote itself. Thanks to all of you who reviewed.

**Raven Silvers**- No. No more. In fact, this chapter doesn't exist. Sorry—my sarcasm gets in the way.

**Cecily Marla Smith**- I know. That was the one mistake I couldn't ignore in the movie, 'cuz they could've just checked it and it wouldn't have broken anybody's back!

**LotRseer3350-** Gracias! As you command…so here it is!

Re-Introductions

            For a while, walking was stiff and unnatural. I suppose that's a normal thing when your blood hasn't been pumping for a while. As soon as I got used to it and got my old clothes back, I booked passage to England. I had a strange desire to return to the country of my birth. Also, it had a telegraph station whereas my little village did not.

            What was really hard was not finding the Nautilus, for you could always access it very easily if you knew what you were looking for, but what to say. 'Oh, hi guys, it's me, good old Mr. Q. You had my tombstone spelled wrong, and oh, by the way, I'm alive again.' That wouldn't go over well with anyone, excepting maybe Skinner.

            I finally opted to go with an anonymous stranger asking for their presence.

TO: LEAGUE OF EXTRAORDINARY GENTLEMEN, ABOARD NAUTILUS

FROM: ANONYMOUS, LONDON, ENGLAND

I REQUEST YOUR PRESENCE HERE 11 SEP 99. MEET ME AT THE EAST LONDON DOCKS.

 I KNOW SOMETHING THAT MIGHT BE OF INTEREST TO YOU.

            There. That would get them all excited—especially Sawyer. Actually, he would probably see it as me saying 'I know something you don't know' and if he was immature, which, of course, he isn't, he would tackle me to the ground until I 'fessed up.' Always eager for a new adventure, but always getting into trouble, that he _almost_ always got out of.

            I checked into a hotel and rediscovered my home city. It had changed some, new people were in charge of old things I remembered, but it still had the same feeling of purpose, that something important was happening here. Finally, the 11th arrived.

            I waited until dark, assuming that with his reputation as a pirate Nemo would not want to broadcast to all of England his presence. I was right. I didn't actually see the Nautilus, but I could hear Nemo's automobile pull up behind me. I sneaked a peek over my shoulder. The newer model was more compact, more refined. You could feel the pent up energy inside it. It was a leopard, not a lion.

            Sawyer called out to me first. "You the guy who sent us the telegram?" He was never one to beat around the bush, was he? Well obviously—who else would be hanging around this particular place at this time of night? When I nodded, he continued. "So what've you got that's so interesting?" He skipped any sort of pleasantries, but I suppose I should have expected that. His voice brought me up short for a moment, though. It was on guard; he sounded tired, as if his latest mission had drained him of all that wonderful energy.

            I love being dramatic. I turned around and said, "An old friend," and pulled off my low-sitting hat.

            Both I and my audience were stupefied. Them, for obvious reasons. Me, because of them… they had changed. It was like being introduced to completely different people, or meeting your second cousin twice removed and being expected to kiss her hairy cheek.

            Jekyll seemed more confident. Not necessarily more at peace with himself—that had come when the Nautilus had almost sunk. This was more like he felt companionship with the rest of the League. He stood next to Nemo.

            Nemo seemed more open, which I suppose is understandable. We saw him at a dark time for him in his newly reformed life, and maybe it made him more real in our eyes, and his own. It was like he was uncovering this part of himself—the human part—to bring back an equilibrium between pirate and saint.

            Skinner's stance showed more confidence and comfort, though I daresay he didn't need any more of either. He had earned his place among these hero figures and found that by his own standards he measured up.

            Mina had lost some of the cool atmosphere that seemed to follow her wherever she went. She seemed to no longer need to protect herself from showing the shame of her mistakes and her very nature. She looked as if she felt she had in some way atoned for them.

            You couldn't see the change in Tom if you didn't know him. Before, he had been mischievous and fun loving by nature. Now, though, it seemed forced. It was covering something up—and then I realized what it was. Guilt. I had known that hindsight that showed in his eyes for a very long time after my son's death. It pained me to see it in his eyes.

            They stared at me for a while, and I stared at them. Jekyll was the first to speak up. "Allan? You're… you're not dead."

            I looked at Mina, who would understand what I said next. "Africa wouldn't let me die."

            Then Tom turned and ran full out in the opposite direction. I called out to him and took a step to follow him, but Jekyll caught my arm.

            He said, "Tom took your death very hard. He blamed himself, you knew he would. He's been carrying that weight around on his shoulders, and with you here again, he feels like all the guilt should be gone but it can't be. He's too afraid you'll blame him for your… departure."

            "My death, you mean," I said, feeling a little resentment towards Jekyll for understanding Sawyer better than I could. It really wasn't his fault; after all, he _had_ spent more time with Sawyer. My rationalizing meant nothing, though. I felt that I alone should understand Sawyer, that I had a special bond with the boy.

            At that thought, I realized what the difference between our viewpoints was, me and Jekyll. Jekyll saw Sawyer for what he was: a man. I saw him as I wanted to see him: a son, to make up for my old mistakes.

            But that wasn't all, was it? Sawyer meant more to me than just a second try, he really was like a son to me. I thought of how I had celebrated with him at his successes, gave him advice to try and keep him from making my mistakes, literally died for him. Wasn't that what a father was?

            Nemo interrupted my thoughts. "I invite you to join us on the Nautilus. We were touring the world when you contacted us. Many of us would very much appreciate it if you came on board." His eyes seemed to dare me to say no. If I did say no, I would be hurting Sawyer and the rest of them, and most of all, insulting the Nautilus's hospitality. Not that there was any chance of me saying no.

            "Yes, I would be most pleased to join you aboard the Nautilus," I said, getting the ceremony out of the way. I continued, "I would like to find Agent Sawyer first, though." I locked eyes with him for a moment, telling him that this needed to be a solitary effort.

            He seemed to get the message. "Very well. The Nautilus will be waiting for you here in 45 minutes. Do not be late."

            "Thank you, Captain." I said. He and the rest climbed back into the car and drove off the way they came.


	3. Return

I'm back, all. This is looking like it's going to be the last chapter, unless I get a vision on how exactly to continue it. Where it ends just seemed like a good stopping point to me. If any of you have any ideas, I'm open. Very big thank you to those of you who reviewed—you're the ones who keep this story rolling.

**Raven Silvers-** Off course we had him take off. Can't have a story without Tom angst, right?

**LotRseer3350- **Just this last chapter, I'm afraid, unless I have a severe case of Eureka Syndrome, or someone (nudge nudge, wink wink) gives me an idea.

Return

I found Tom about 5 minutes later outside the back entrance to Dorian Gray's home, where we first met, so to speak. He was sitting against the wall with his head leaned back, his eyes closed, and his knees up. His hands were hanging over his knees at the wrist. It was the epitome of beleaguered-ness. If he had pinched the bridge of his nose it would have made the picture complete. Oh, look, there he did it. We had on our hands one very stressed out boy—man.

I sat down on the ground next to him, assuming basically the same position, but more relaxed. Dying does that to you. You seem to lose most of the worries that you had before.

I didn't speak, but let him start. "What's it like?" he asked.

I knew perfectly well what he was talking about, but I asked anyway. "What's what like?"

"Death."

I considered it for a moment before saying, "You would have to have some common experience on the topic for there to be any meaningful discussion on it."

For the first time he opened his eyes and stared at me. "Are you saying I'd have to die to know what death's like?" I nodded.**;**

I sensed that silence was going to overtake us again, so I decided to broach the subject we were both thinking of. "Tom, I don't blame you for my death. How could I?"

My outburst seemed to have broken down the walls holding him back. "How could you not blame me? If I hadn't been there, if I hadn't been stupid enough to get caught, you would never have had to die in the first place! The others, they can comfort me and be strong and wise, because they weren't there. They don't have to worry at all about being blamed, about knowing what they caused!" He drew another breath as if to continue but stopped himself. I talked during his silence.

"Tom, if you hadn't been there, we wouldn't have even made it to Venice. We'd have been dead in Gray's library. And getting caught, well, anyone could have made that mistake, I mean, how in hell are you going to tell the difference? The way they smell?" I paused to let him take it in. "Besides, would you have really wanted me to be the one to get Moriarty?" Tom sighed, and I knew I was almost there. "Tom, sometimes thing like that happen and they're beyond our control. I know I can't make you not blame yourself, but at least try. Be a man, learn from mistakes. This time, nothing was hurt; you came out lucky. Why blame yourself for this when there'll be other things like it in your life, I guarantee it, and sometimes it won't turn out good like they did now. I know you know what I'm talking about. You told us about your friend, you know how easy it is to lose everything. Don't prolong the agony any more than you have to by blaming yourself. When you do that, you forget to live, and in someone as young and full of vitality as yourself, it would be a horrible waste."

Tom blinked in surprise, and so did I. I looked at him, and realized that this whole experience was not just about me coming back to life, but both of us. For the first time in our entire meeting, there was some life in his eyes, a willingness to risk.

I stood up and offered my hand to him. He grabbed it and I pulled him up. We stood looking at each other for a moment. Suddenly, I remembered the Winchester in the hotel room. It's strange how whenever I think of Tom, I think, _Winchester_, and vice versa. "I still have the Winchester you left on my grave. You can have it back if you want it." I knew what I was hoping for, but promised myself not to be disappointed if I didn't get it.

I didn't have to worry. "No, keep it. I gave it to you for a reason. Here, we have time. We can go to your hotel and I'll help you grab your stuff to bring to the Nautilus." I smiled like a kid on Christmas morning. Finally, I was back with my family.

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**;**That, or the general gist of it, is from Star Trek IV: The Journey Home. By the way, does anyone know how to make astericks stick on this dumb thing?


End file.
